


What Happened in 1637

by pinkfloyd1770



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 12:29:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkfloyd1770/pseuds/pinkfloyd1770
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clyde sells tulips and wonders about his lot in life.  Craig has allergies. Together they make it work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Happened in 1637

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own South Park. Let me know if this story and its plot are a complete mess.

Clyde's left hand and index finger were stained with bright crimson thumbprints, still clean and stark as the marks on an officer's template; orange smears spread across his right palm and thumb, sinking into the networking crevices of his skin. When his first early morning customer left, Clyde turned so his hip faced the counter, tugged his shirt up and traced the thick lines of green from his waist to his stomach. He had to wonder how his face wasn't tinted yellow, pink, or some combination of the colors on the rest of his body. Craig was careful, and any vibrant shade ended just below Clyde's collarbone; even so he always wore tee shirts under his work outfit, which wasn't much different from what he usually wore at home.

Next to the potted tulips, Clyde matched the tint of the leaves to the ink against his stomach. He still couldn't think of Craig's talent as mundane, no matter how many times he saw it as finished product or unintentional residue. They could have lived off the combined income from the shop's plants and artwork, but Craig seemed resigned never to quit his regular job. Why, Clyde didn't know. If Craig wanted to tell him, he would. 

Clyde set aside those thoughts when he heard the door open; he hadn't installed a bell. Craig had simply said 'It's annoying as hell, and someone's always at the counter anyway, so why bother?' 

But it was only Butters. He cast a long shadow in the morning light. The windows were half obscured by long, broad leaves, some thick and waxy, others nearly translucent, delicate as the stained glass they impersonated.

“Hey, Clyde.” Butters smiled and raised his hand in greeting. He'd filled out since high school and college, his wiry, nervous frame replaced by broad shoulders and lithe legs. He worked as a fitness instructor at the local gym, where he specialized in physical therapy, and had met his current girlfriend, a stripper name Megan. Her stage name was Amber Starr, which Craig said was the most uncreative stripper name he'd ever heard, a sentiment Kenny seconded. 

Whatever floated Butters' boat, as far as Clyde was concerned. He came in almost every week, and bought either a bouquet of a dozen early Couleur Cardinals, or a single potted plant in full bloom. Clyde figured strippers would like flowers, after being stared at by sleazy old men and Kenny. Kenny was at least a good tipper, and reasonably attractive. 

“Hi Butters. What'll it be this time?” Clyde laid his hands on the counter, unfolding a tricolor display which only a few customers would comment on. 

“Hm.” Butters rubbed a cheek and walked around the counter, eying the displays. He looked better with a beard, Clyde thought, even if the hair was so light and short it was like peach fuzz from afar, and made his face look like a dandelion when he grinned.  
“Do you have any Purple Princes?” 

Clyde nodded. “Yeah. I've been growing them for Easter. They go with the color of the season.” It was a stupid, redundant thing to say, but Butters took the remark in easily. 

“Yup. I gave up having sex.”

Butters sounded so cheerful and casual, that Clyde stopped dead at the wrought iron stands he kept the potted plants on. 

“Oh. Really?” 

“Yeah. Well, I mean sex is pretty much all of Meg's job. Not really sex, but, uh, sexuality, I guess. And what's more disciplined than giving up carnal stuff?” 

“Yeah. Right.” _What a poor fucker._

Clyde inspected the plants. They were just coming into bloom, the oval shaped buds dull and chalky. When at full maturity, their petals would be flush with color, and this particular breed had flowers like cut and polished amethysts. 

“I told Meg that, at least. I think she's kind of ticked at me, still. So, you know.”

“Flowers are a good choice,” Clyde assured vaguely. _He must piss her off every week_

“But I don't think she'll mind too much, when we finally get back to it in a few days.” Butters sounded so innocuous and vapid talking about his personal life that Clyde couldn't be bothered to affect disgust, though he usually enjoyed listening to people talk about sex, and wasn't afraid to admit he'd gotten hard listening to Kenny talk about how he liked to titty fuck Bebe. Sometimes Clyde wished he'd stayed with her long enough to have enjoyed the same experience. 

“Here you go.” Clyde cut into Butters' seemingly happy babbling. “This one should come into bloom in about a week. Instructions are attached to the lower stem, like always.” Handwritten by Craig, in impossibly neat calligraphy with a felt tip pen.  
“Thanks, Clyde. This looks like it'll come in real nice, and just in time for Easter.” 

Clyde nodded noncommittally. His eyes narrowed at the pot in Butters' hands. The buds were symmetric; he mentally quartered and mended them, thinking what the might look like in ink. 

Butters followed Clyde's gaze and nodded. 

“I'll take some pictures when the buds start blooming.”

“Try to get the stems and petals in profile. And some closeups of the petals would be great too.” 

“The leaves too?” 

“No. They're nothing special. Just some normal pictures of them will be fine.” 

“All rightly then. Can't wait to see the final picture. Tell Craig I said hi.” 

Clyde frowned instead of responding. Butters usually took up at least twenty minutes, chatting about his job, love life, even his onetime infatuation with Bebe's D cups, something that Clyde could whole-heartedly empathize with. _Must be pretty damn serious without anything happening in the sack._

With Butters gone and no other customers in sight, Clyde left the counter and went to the back of the store, keys in hand. The door always stuck, so he had to shove it with his shoulder; since replacing the old wood stairs with brick, Clyde hadn't even bothered to get a quote for the door. 

Clyde usually had the panes of the greenhouse windows cleaned professionally twice a year, in addition to the regular monthly maintenance he performed. Last year one the panels had cracked open in the middle of winter, and he'd had to special order a replacement and work for an afternoon with snow and wind blowing in his face. 

Today, winter was far off and obscure, even as he could make out snow capped mountains in the distance. Clyde walked down the soil laden troughs, a gentle mist of water dousing his shirt and face; he checked the moisture of the soil with a finger, checked the stems of the plants for stiffness and measured the heights of problematic specimens. He'd have to move two of the plants, give them more water and light.  
Stunted plants didn't interest Clyde now. Against the front wall was a tray with twelve pots, shoots just starting to breach the soil. Clyde knelt to be at eye level with rims of the pots, then moved left to right, right to left. Everything looked fine. 

_Everything._

There was something terrible and foreboding about that word. Craig rarely used it, and when he did, it was in an exact manner. Clyde supposed, on closer inspection, from the right angle, that one of the leaves on the third plant could have been a little fuller. He'd never bred this type of broken tulip; all he had to go one was a painting that made up the cover of one of Craig's favorite books. The image served as his template and inspiration, a synthetic model for a final, organic realization. Or so he hoped. 

All the other plants were in order. Some would be ready to cut by the end of the week, and others he would place in clay and ceramic pots with notes attached. For Easter he'd received a large order from the church, for dusky pink triumph flowers. Clyde would attend Mass this year with the almost singular purpose of inspecting the final arrangement of the tulips. 

Downstairs Clyde found three customers, an older couple and a woman he guessed to be in her thirties. She wore a blue and white pin striped shirt, and black pants that hugged her hips and thighs. Clyde's pulse quickened. He approached the woman and smiled, colored hands hanging at his sides. 

“Hi. Can I help you find anything?” 

“Yes. I need yellow tulips.” 

“Ah. All right.” She sounded like she'd been practicing for that line her whole life. Clyde often wished he could sound as emphatic in everyday conversation. 

Clyde lead her to the front display racks, all black cast iron, thin and glossy. He selected a plant with striped leaves and held it out for his customer to inspect. 

“This one's a Golden Emperor. I planted it last fall, and it should come into full bloom in the next two or three days.” Clyde brushed the large, burgeoning yellow petals with the tip of his finger. “These would have good symmetry, he figured. “If you plant this bulb, you should have-”

“I'm not interested in that. I don't want a potted plant.” The woman cut him off abruptly, shaking her head. Her long, dark hair glittered.

Like fiber optics, Clyde thought, but wasn't really sure. 

“I want cut flowers. Like these. They'll work very well.” Her lips were full and glossy, layered with a pearly pink; they seemed to purse with each word. Clyde pressed his knees together. 

“Well all right.” He muttered, “Should have said that in the first place.” Luckily he'd cut a few bouquets from previous plants.

“Here we go.” She was looking at her phone, and only acknowledged him after moments of silence. 

“A dozen,” he said dryly, imitating Craig, but he handed them to her as though offering a gift to a potential girlfriend. His pulse was normal. 

Clyde completed the transaction without another word. Straight after he saw to the couple, who had changed their minds about what to buy after hearing the description of the Emperors. They opted for white, after seeing a plant with mature blossoms and solid green leaves. He even managed to pique their interest in a print of the same type of tulip, and stopped just short of going into overly long detail about its origin and process of creation. 

The rest of the morning saw six more customers, and the sale of eight bouquets, four potted plants, and a rendition of two cut, broken tulips, their petals a whorl of orange and yellow. Clyde admired the detail given to the stems and leaves before placing the painting in a slender box and handing it to a now relieved man who had an adequate anniversary gift. 

Clyde's phone rang just as he closed shop for lunch. He really needed to ask his temp to come in more often.

“Hey. How's work today?” It was always Craig, at lunch time. 

“Fine. What do want me to pick up for dinner?” 

“Uh.” Clyde took a bite of his sandwich, chewing tightly and swallowing slowly. “How about...” Clyde ran a hand over his stomach... “sushi?” Rice fish and avocado. They couldn't be too bad for him. 

“All right. I know a place.” Craig cleared his throat, and Clyde rushed in. 

“I think I've got a good drawing opportunity. Haven't seen a purple flower yet.” 

Craig paused; he was probably in the lobby, pacing around just before the entrance. 

“Who'd you sell it to?” 

“Butters.” 

Another pause. “What the hell does he want purple for?” As though Craig took personal offense to the idea of Butters owning a purple flower. 

“It's almost Easter.” Clyde gulped down most of his water, burped, and peeled his banana. He didn't like bananas, but they were sweet without too much sugar, and no fat.

“Oh.” A flat note. “Church, then?”

“Yeah. They bought a bunch of flowers for decoration. I wanna see how they're going to be used.” 

“Fine. Sounds good. I'll see you tonight.” Craig hung up. Clyde finished lunch and had five minutes to himself before he opened the shop and had to tend to a new customer. The day would be ordinary, mundane, and he was perfectly happy with that. 

“Store's closing in ten minutes,” Clyde announced at ten to six. He would either make or break three sales with that announcement. 

With two fewer pots in inventory, Clyde closed the front door and flipped the sign to closed. He took off his shirt and walked to the back of the store, toeing off his shoes as he went. In front of the door marked 'Employee Bathroom', Clyde stripped down to his boxers.  
The shower was large enough for an average person to raise their arms comfortably, so Clyde pressed his biceps to his sides as he washed his hair. He edged himself into a corner to scrub one armpit, reversed, and washed the other. While Clyde stood in the hot stream, he thought of the woman who bought the Golden Emperors, taut thighs beneath a short skirt, firm breasts stretching her blouse. His cock started to harden; he moved a slippery hand lazily up and down the shaft, stopping before he could goad himself to full erection. Craig would be home soon, and Clyde wanted to eat with him. 

Clyde dried himself off and took a fresh set of clothing and a clear plastic bag from a tall, cramped cabinet. He stuffed his work outfit into the bag, slung it over his shoulder, and five minutes later stood at the bus stop with a crowd of people who he regarded with a vague but comfortable familiarity, having seen the same permutation of faces every weeknight for the last two years. He took a seat at the front of the bus. His feet throbbed for most of the ten minute ride, not an unpleasant feeling, in Clyde's understanding of the word. Craig would take care of any soreness without even being asked, his hands soft and thorough. 

Clyde swallowed, his erection returning in full force as he made his way down the steps and then along the sidewalk. Thanks to Clyde's father, he and Craig had managed to land an apartment in a newly built complex at a discount. They had a view of Stark's Pond from their bedroom, and when Craig could stand to go outside for more than a few minutes during spring, they took walks, and Clyde fed the ducks while Craig kept his hands in his pockets and left translucent footprints all over the thinning snow.  
Clyde met Craig at their door. Craig had a tissue pressed to his nose, his eyes red and narrowed. Clyde smiled when he noticed they had bags draped over the same shoulder. 

“Rough day?” Clyde took the bag and kissed Craig through his tissue. 

“Fuck this season.” The door was unlocked moments later and Craig entered, his footsteps unrepentantly heavy. 

Clyde took the Styrofoam boxes out of Craig's backpack, set the table and waited. He heard the rattling of pill bottles from the bedroom, knew Craig was probably downing half his prescription. 

“Don't take too many of those.” Clyde had only ever once voiced the bottle's warning label, before Craig assured him that he could read. 

“I forgot them this morning.” Craig's voice sounded even flatter than usual, seeming to clot in his nose and throat. “Thank fuck you showered.”

“I don't think I've ever forgotten.” 

Craig started eating without a reply. He'd learned to use chopsticks in college, but Clyde had never mastered them, so he stabbed the rolls and nigiri with a fork. They ate in silence, punctuated by Craig's snorts and sneezes. By the time they'd tossed out the boxes and a lone piece of diced squid, Craig swore he'd move to the middle of the Arizona desert. Moments later, he expelled the contents of his nose in one last, long valiant snort into a napkin. 

Clyde took that as a good sign. He cupped Craig's shoulder, squeezed it and ran his open palm down to the small of his back. He kept it there and made broad, slow arcs in sync with Craig's breathing. Craig snorted again, blew his nose, and relaxed. Clyde thought Craig kept his hair too short; he preferred it when the locks brushed the nape of his neck, when his ears were covered at their tips. 

“I'll finish the drawing tonight.” Craig closed his eyes, his head tilted back, as if in a pose. 

Clyde's hand stilled, his pulse quickened. The Golden Emperor, from last spring, which had remained in bloom for almost a month before abdicating its lavish petals. 

“Think you're up for it?” Questioning Craig was pointless, but they'd both be disappointed if, next morning, the final product was an under representation.

Craig left the table. Clyde followed behind him, trying to keep his steps level and controlled. The work room was empty except for a desk and two floor lamps. Craig choose the apartment largely for the extra room, with its wall of French windows that faced the rising sun. Natural light was apparently good for drawing, when available. 

A sheet of long, heavy paper took up the left quarter of the desk; glossy photos of a Golden Emperor, taken from several angle and distances, checkered the wall behind the desk. From left to right they formed a broken panoramic view. Fountainheads, sharp and polished, lay in scattered order, thick and thin, broad and narrow, ending with an assembled pen that Craig had used last night to finish drawing the petals on both flowers. 

Clyde stood to the side as always, his view unobstructed and personal. Craig sat and set aside his pens in favor of a brush and three inkwells. He gingerly twisted the cap off the first two, shades of pure green rippling as he moved. His process was slow but unbroken. From the moment he dipped the first brush, his movements never ceased. The stem and leaves were layered with alternating shades of green. Craig ascended to the leaves quickly, his thumb and index finger rimmed with green. He worked so the ink seemed to bleed from the leaf tip to the bottom, color falling downward as though through gravity. Brush broadness varied fluidly. Clyde wasn't really aware of which type should be used for which stroke; the final result and the bare seconds leading to it folded together into one event in his mind.

Craig paused, a change like the screeching halt of a speeding train. He set his brush against the lip of the inkwell. 

“How is it?” He didn't look up. 

“Nice.” Clyde couldn't say anything else. The paper leaves matched the photographs in shape and shadow. 

Craig nodded. He choose another brush, pointed and fine. 

_Delicate. Like Craig's hair and hands. No. His hands are soft but they're steady, and firm._

Clyde didn't pay much attention to the petal coloring. He wanted to see the finished drawing in full, fresh bloom, ink still wet. Next week he'd put the piece up for sale, and he knew, with growing anxiety, that someone would buy it in the space of a few days. Yellow struck people more than any other color. The first thing Clyde had noticed when he'd met Craig was the puff ball on his hat, and he felt guilty, now and always, that he couldn't, or hadn't seen anything that wasn't superficial. Craig never brought up their childhood. That was as good as saying that he wouldn't have been bothered if he had known about what Clyde thought. Or didn't. 

“Well. That's it.” A click of wood against wood. Craig pushed away from the desk, the motion as good as a cue for Clyde to step next to him. 

“You got the texture down great. And the size of the petals. I love” Clyde reached for the petals, intending to indicate the shading, but his finger hit the paper. 

_Shit._

“Sorry. Craig, I didn't meant...”

“It doesn't matter.” Craig shrugged and took his hand and squeezed. Ink dried rapidly against Clyde's fingers. More yellow. His pulse sped. Craig loosened his grip, lowered his arm and relaxed against the chair. 

“Take off your shirt.” 

Clyde exhaled, smiled, and did as told. The air cooled his skin, made him shiver. Craig stood and pushed him toward the wall; his mouth went from Clyde's neck to his chest, his hands left faded trails of yellow and green around Clyde's chest, beneath his nipples. Craig grasped his shoulder and pulled them down. They'd both gotten used to the bare floor, and Clyde crossed his legs, let Craig kneel on his thighs, placed his hands against Craig's waist; it contrasted well against Clyde's own.  
Craig breathed heavily through is mouth, like he'd been running. 

“You okay?” Clyde stroked his hair. 

“Fine.” He squeezed Clyde's side and finally kissed him, short but hard, and pulled back panting. 

“God, fuck spring.” 

“Don't say that,” Clyde muttered. “You'll spoil the flowers.” 

“Right, fine.” Another kiss. “Socks off,” Craig instructed, but moved off and acted himself. 

Craig said Clyde's feet were large and ponderous, that they matched the rest of his body. 

“You're on your feet all day. Must suck.”

Always the same line. Clyde smiled lazily as he felt Craig's thumbs press into his foot.  
“Hey,” Clyde said after both his feet received attention. “Lay back.” 

Craig nodded and pulled off his shirt. He fell back as Clyde rose. His body hair was fine, almost a down that spread across his chest, under his arms and converged in a dark line down his naval. Clyde stroked his chest and stomach, then squeezed and twisted both his nipples; Craig hissed, his lower back arched. 

Clyde's eyes narrowed. He gave a final, harsh twist, raised his hands, slipped them down Craig's sides, cupped and rubbed his crotch. Craig grunted and curled his fingers against the floor. 

He pulled off Craig's pants and boxers in one motion and in the next hoisted his legs onto his shoulders and moved down until his heels were resting on his back. Clyde sucked Craig off slowly, took his full length in, used his throat and tongue while his fingers played across Craig's chest again. 

“God...Clyde. Do those old fuckers who buy flowers...fuck...know what you do with your mouth?”

Clyde meted out a rough chuckle, and the hum made Craig thrust his hips again. 

“But you probably think of fucking the girls that walk in there, yeah? Bending them over the counter and giving it to them up the ass?” 

Clyde dug his hand into Craig's side, his nails blunt. He received only a grunt in return.

“But...nah. You're a titty man, what am I talking about? Ah...That's all right though. You probably jerk off in that shower every afternoon anyway, thinking of whoring around with a slut off the street.” 

Clyde lifted his left and and placed it around the base of Craig's throat, tightening his grip until he felt the speeding pulse beneath his fingers. His hand silenced Craig, except for his harsh, snorting breaths and the sound of his hands and feet against the floor.

A final slide of his tongue and Craig came down Clyde's throat; he withdrew, mouth and hand, coughed lightly, and wiped his mouth. Craig's body was prone before him. His chest quivered for one breath, two, before he raised his head.

Clyde pulled out his cock and leaned back on his palms and spread his legs. Craig sighed and sat up, his movement languid as he crawled forward and lowered his head between Clyde's legs. He ran his tongue up Clyde's base, latched his mouth around his head and tightened his lips, releasing only for frequent breaths.

Clyde didn't last long, already pushed to the edge. Craig reciprocated a clean, quick swallow. His lips glistened briefly before he sucked them in, exhaled loudly and rested his head on Clyde's thigh.  
“You good?” Clyde dragged his hands through Craig's hair and down his neck, cock still semi-erect.  
Craig didn't respond immediately; he remained still and limp, as though inundated by the afterglow of his climax. Slowly, he stood, unconcerned about the view from the large open windows. When he'd started buttoning his shirt, Clyde was still on the floor, pants at his thighs. 

Craig knelt and kissed him.

“I'm about as good as I'll get.” 

 

Watching Butters' girlfriend pole dance while he drank a bright red margarita gave Clyde a feeling of barely present affluence, coupled with a niggling sense, of what, he couldn't place. Maybe it came from sitting next to Kenny, who hadn't even glanced at his second drink since Megan arrived on stage. He kept his thumb against his jaw, his index finger resting between his lips with almost an air of finesse.

“Christ. I can't believe Butters.” 

Clyde continued to suck the sweet slurry though his straw without thought. For some reason he never suffered brain freeze. His eyes widened a fraction when Megan lifted her leg to meet her raised arm against the pole.  
Kenny sighed and pushed himself back, into the cushioned seat. 

“I never get tired of seeing that.” 

“Yeah,” Clyde agreed, sincerely. Legs could be as good as tits, when used right. 

_And she has dark hair. Sharp cheekbones. Pale hands._

Kenny finally set into his whiskey, finishing a quarter of his glass and complementing it with an equal amount of water. 

“Huh. This might actually be worth the price.” 

Clyde wouldn't have known. Craig liked whiskey, drank it with a careful precision and gradually developed conceit. He had a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label, seal unbroken, stored in the living room cabinet, collecting dust and forlorn stares while he tried to figure out when to drink it. 

“You really think it's that weird for Butters to be dating Megan?” Clyde asked just as she started a dance for an older man who looked vaguely like an older Stan Marsh with a scraggly beard. 

Kenny frowned. He might have seemed thoughtful if it weren't for his overly bushy goatee which lent him the look of a motorcycle gang member. 

“Well, yeah. I mean I figured he'd be taking it up the ass. Whether he was with a guy or a girl.” Kenny paused, shrugged, and took a drink. “Hell, maybe he is. But I don't really see Megan as the strap on dildo type.” 

“I didn't know there was a type.” 

Kenny laughed. “Wendy. And possibly Bebe.”

“Bebe wouldn't do that.” 

“No? You dated her like ten years ago, man. I did her about three years ago.”

Clyde stared at his half empty glass; he couldn't really taste the tequila. It was more like a liquid fruit roll up, just slightly bitter. Bitter was good enough. 

“And did she ever try to fuck you with a dildo?” 

“Nope. But she did finger me a few times.” Kenny spoke with a levity and fondness that almost made Clyde believe him. 

He went back to staring unabashedly at Megan's chest. 

“What does your girlfriend even think of you coming here almost every week?” 

Kenny leaned back. “That's hard to say, since she doesn't know.” 

Clyde frowned. “Seriously?” 

“Yeah, Clyde. Seriously. I mean we can't all have girls like Craig who don't care if we like to sneak a look at other tits on the side.” 

“Craig doesn't have tits.” Clyde had never thought of something like that. The image wasn't necessarily disgusting, but...no. He much preferred Craig with small, pert nipples, each wreathed in a whorl of fine black hair. 

“Oh.” Kenny suddenly sat up and appeared to take notice of something other than the circular stage. “Speaking of tits on dudes, I invited Cartman.”

Craig groaned. “Why?”

“I felt sorry for him.”

'Never feel sorry for anyone. It's just something shitty people do when they think they're better than you.' 

Craig's advice was usually sound, but this case felt like a valid and noteworthy exception. 

“When's he coming?” 

“Eh, I don't know. He said something about 'actually having a job', but I'm pretty sure he just needed to get over the fact that someone actually invited him out for a drink without him asking.” 

Clyde ordered another margarita. He should have worn a lighter, older shirt. He'd started to sweat under his arms, and there was too much smoke in the air. It would have made Craig sneeze. 

Kenny stood. “All right, fuck this. She's been over with that same guy for the last ten minutes.” He edged around Clyde and made his way over to where Megan was in the middle of what looked to be a fairly generic lap dance, if the state of Clyde's cock was any indication. 

His drink arrived. He forewent the straw and started slurping from the center of the glass, his lips and chin rapidly going numb. Megan apparently liked these same margaritas, because they were...Well Butters had never said why. 

“Hey! Hey wait. I know you.” 

Clyde tilted his head to see who was yelling. 

“You're Stan's friend. Stewart's kid!” 

_Oh crap._

Kenny smiled tightly and raised his hands in front of his chest in placation. He had a few bills wedged between the fingers of his right hand. 

“Mr. Marsh. Hi. Look, my friend and I were kind of hoping to have a dance, since you've already gotten a good eyeful.”

Clyde only stared, his face heating. Kenny's remark should have been horribly awkward, even if they were all here for the same thing. But Kenny sounded just as casual as he should have, for someone who frequented a strip club on an almost weekly basis.  
Randy Marsh appeared to genuinely consider Kenny's proposal, while Megan just looked impatient and slightly disgusted. 

Really, it was best just to let them make their rounds and ask if you were interested in a dance. 

“No. No. Come on. Why don't you just sit here, and we can split a dance.” He tried pulling Kenny over to his booth, with little success.

“Ah. No, thanks. Mr. Marsh. Really. It'd be better for both of us.” Kenny started backing up, his hands thankfully lowered so he no longer looked like an imminent victim of bodily harm. 

“Aw, no c'mon. I already paid. Just sit back and have...what are you drinking these days anyway? Scotch, am I right?” 

Kenny scowled at that, and this time the biker look complemented his expression, made it dangerous. 

“Not gonna happen.” He removed Randy's hand from his arm with a painfully controlled motion.

Megan sighed. “Look, if you guys are just going to stand there arguing, I've got other customers.” 

Randy and Kenny started to speak simultaneously before an unmistakable and angry voice cut them short.

“Kenny!” 

Clyde stepped from the booth to see Butters, trailed by Cartman, speeding towards Kenny in what could only be described as a power walk. 

Now Kenny just looked confused. 

“Hey Butters. Something up?” 

Butters stopped a few inches from Kenny's face.

“Yeah, you bet something's up! Why are you in here, ogling at my girlfriend?” He jabbed Kenny's chest with his finger. They were about the same height, and even though Butters had the advantage of broadness, Kenny stood his ground.

“Uh.” Kenny's mouth quirked up awkwardly, a smile created and destroyed in a blink. “Cause she's a stripper.” 

Butters' fists clenched and his eyes narrowed. He tried to speak but could only shake his head.

_He looks like an angry dandelion_ , Clyde thought, all his attention on Butters' light spiky hair and translucent beard.

“Butters, what the hell are you doing?” Megan loomed over them all, talking out of the side of her mouth while she eyed the bouncers. 

“Kenny's bein' a grade A ass, coming down here just so he can watch you pole dance.”

“It's my job.” She sounded just as confused as Kenny, Randy and his friends looked. 

Butters waved his hands. “That's not the point.” 

Kenny shook his head. “Yeah, I don't get it. I mean, these guys,” have waved towards Randy, “have been eye banging her since they got here.”

_God, Kenny._

Though, really, Clyde had been thinking about what squeezing Megan's bare breasts with his hands for the majority of the evening. 

“They aren't supposed to be my close friends. They're just old drunk guys who'll probly leave their wives.” 

“What'd you just say?” Randy stumbled around Kenny, gripping the stage with an unsteady hand. 

“You know, Clyde is here too,” Kenny said indignantly.

Butters paused in surprise. His body relaxed and he turned his head right and left before his eyes met Clyde's and he smiled, in total oblivion of what had just transpired. 

“Oh. Hey Clyde!” He even waved. 

“Hi Butters,” Clyde responded, barely raising his hand in acknowledgment. 

Just as quickly, Butters caught up with his anger and turned back to Kenny. 

“Clyde's not the one shaking a wad of cash at my girlfriend.” 

Clyde frowned. “Uh, I think I should go...” No one acknowledged him, except Cartman, who came up beside the booth with a beer in hand. He glanced down. 

“What the hell are you even doing here, Clyde? I don't think staring at titties will stop making you want dick up your ass.” 

“I'm not...” But Clyde realized who he was talking to, and stopped, drowning his words in his drink. 

“Butters, stop.” Megan winced. “God, here comes my boss.” 

Clyde didn't know the owner's name; he was tall, thin and kept his grey hair closely cropped.

“Sir,” he stared at Butters, then Kenny. “There a problem?” 

Before Butters could even breath in, Kenny pushed in front of him, smiling. 

“Nope. Just a little misunderstanding. Here.” He gave the owner the bills he'd had between his fingers. 

“That should cover any, ah, lapses in profit our spat caused.” He kept his smile, made it genuine, in spite of the remorseless stare he was subjected to. 

Finally, once Butters had been silent for some apparently critical time frame, the owner pocketed the money.

“Megan. Take a break.” He walked off without another word.

“Kenny, I still wanna-” Butters was cut off when Megan stepped from the stage and grabbed his arm, pulling him toward an 'Employees Only' door. 

“No, Butters. I wanna.” 

Kenny let out a long breath, his lips flapping in the turbulence. He glared at Cartman. 

“This is why no one wants to invite you anywhere, fatass.” 

Cartman threw himself into the booth; Clyde expected to hear the cracking of wood. 

“Screw you, Kenny. He didn't even punch you. All he did was have a bitch fit. Which is nothing new.” 

“Yeah? Well you owe me forty bucks.”

Cartman snorted. “Forty bucks? What did you think she was gonna do, blow you?” 

Kenny sat between Cartman and Clyde, glowering. “She had a paying customer already.” That customer seemed far more disappointed at the departure of Megan than he should have. Randy muttered something about having to go home in a half hour, and  
having a son who wouldn't even spend time with his father. 

None of them spoke for a time, not even when another dancer came into view to gauge their interest. Kenny drank his whiskey with an ugly concentration, hand never leaving the glass, his lips twisted and stretched to one side like rubber. 

Craig looked relaxed when he drank, lips wet and hands liberal. Clyde smiled. 

“This is gay,” Cartman said suddenly. 

Kenny laughed derisively. “Haven't heard anyone use that as an insult since high school. But good try.”

“No, I mean this is literally gay. We're sitting here surrounded by a bunch of horny guys with hard ons. And Clyde.” 

“Is Clyde not a guy, or...” Kenny seemed to give up mid sentence and drank. 

“Pretty sure I'm a guy,” Clyde said unhelpfully, acutely disinterested in Cartman's hangups. 

“No one's forcing you to stay,” Kenny sighed as he counted the contents of his wallet. 

Cartman didn't reply. He might make derisive remarks about the bar's clientele, but he was following the motions of a blonde dancer with the same guileless interest as Kenny. 

Blondes were all right, Clyde supposed, but this one didn't have Bebe's proportions, or Craig's long, thin fingers and large hands. 

Kenny continued, “I could have invited Stan. I mean he doesn't usually go for this stuff, but he wouldn't have convinced Butters that I was apparently trying to feel up his girlfriend.” 

“All right Kenny. Keep telling yourself Wendy would let Stan off his leash long enough to let him go to a strip club with you. Oh, wait. He probably would have pussied out and told her he was going to a 'sports bar.' Probably the same piss poor excuse you use.” 

“Do you even have a girlfriend? I mean aside from internet porn?” 

Clyde considered ordering a third margarita. He'd walk or take the bus home anyway. 

“You mean do I have sex with a girl and then hide from her in a strip club when she gets pissed off that she's going to have to support me for the rest of her life because I can't hold down a job that makes more than ten bucks an hour? No. No, can't say I do.” 

Something occurred to Clyde.

“Stan and Wendy are still together?”

Kenny stalled abruptly in the middle of his retort, his anger torn from him as sharply as Butters'. He and Cartman glanced at each other from across Clyde. He sat back and held up his hands.

“I'm not touching that shit.” 

Cartman was apparently all too eager, and plowed forward slowly and with indulgence.

“Stan's thinks that staying with her for the kid is the honorable thing to do.” He laughed. “Well you can just turn your head and see how that'll work out in about thirty years.” Cartman waved his hand in Randy's direction.

Kenny nodded resignedly. “I actually have to agree with him on that one.” 

“Only he wouldn't be in a titty bar. He'd be in a...” Cartman paused. “Clyde, what's a nice name for a fag bar?” 

“A gay bar.” 

“Gay stripper bar,” he conceded grudgingly.

Clyde frowned. “Stan's gay?”

“He wants to ram Kyle's ginger Jew ass.”

“But he was too much of a pussy,” Kenny added, the levity in his voice more of a veneer glossed over somethnig Clyde couldn't pin down. 

“And then he knocked up Testaburger.” Cartman almost sing-songed. 

“You guys are assholes,” Clyde muttered. 

Cartman continued, “And Kyle's still probably a virgin, since he was expecting Stan to swoop in and deflower him. He probably has a mold of Stan's dick and fucks himself to sleep with it every night.” 

“You know, Cartman, you talk about dildos more than any guy I know. Including Clyde and Craig.”

“Fuck you, Kenny.” 

Clyde spoke slowly. “Kyle came into my shop a few weeks ago. He bought a tulip bouquet. I thought they might be for a girlfriend or something.”

Cartman chortled. “Yeah. Right. More like he stood outside Stan's house, waited for him to come home, then gave them to him, and Stan passed them off as a present he'd gotten for Wendy.” 

“Or he could just like tulips.” Clyde rubbed his knuckles with his other hand. “They were Rembrandts. White and red. The nice colors were actually caused by a virus, so you can't buy the originals anymore...”

“We don't care, Clyde.” Cartman waved him off. “Anyway, I'll say this, Clyde. You may be a fag and you might own a fucking flower shop, but Stan's the sorriest excuse for a man I've ever seen.”

Kenny muttered, “Look in a mirror.” 

“Keep telling yourself that, Kenny.” 

“I'm out.” Clyde stood, looking at no one in particular. He dropped a few bills in front of his empty glass, and before he left, stared down at Cartman.

“You know, if you had a girlfriend, you'd shop at my tulip store.” 

He walked away without listening for a response or even pondering his statement. It wasn't something he could really contextualize or relish in. Cartman would probably forget it in a wash of beer and overpriced lap dances. Clyde had only spent sixty dollars,  
barely enough to qualify as a night out. 

Outside the sun still shone clearly, the horizon a ribbon of pale orange. Clyde wondered if Butters and Megan had come to any agreement. Maybe they fucked through their problems. That sounded suitable for Butters. Free of awkward, rambling apologies and nervous stuttering. But he'd apparently given up sex, and probably his most painless escape. Fucking sounded suitable for Kenny, too. Free of false stories about spending time in a sports bar, if Cartman could be trusted to report anything truthfully. He didn't even want to think about what kind of consolation Cartman would have to give a partner. 

Instead of waiting at the bus stop or continuing home, Clyde ambled to the front of his shop and let himself in. His entrance would have been more complete with the ringing of a bell. He'd come in earlier that morning for a few hours, to check prepare the church order and wait for customers. Weekend customers usually came in to indulge their lack of responsibility; they picked up plants, briefly felt their leaves, or stared at Craig's drawings, only occasionally buying them. Clyde didn't mind. People were always more indulgent of his information on the weekends, smiling and nodding like he was a tour guide. 

Clyde imagined himself a customer and picked up the nearest flower. It was already in full bloom, would probably have to be placed back in the greenhouse if it wasn't sold in the next few days. A Rembrandt, orange and red, part of a set he was originally planning to have bloom in July, in time for their namesake's birthday. But the gesture would have been lost on 'the dumb hicks in this town', as Craig kindly said, and anyway, this color was mutated from tulips that normally had an earlier bloom date, and Clyde still had the set of cream and pink plants, still just days into germination. 

He set the flower down and moved to the front display window. Craig's latest drawing sat propped against a pot containing its inspiration, flanked by two ruby red blooms. 

Orange would look better against red. Or maybe white. 

He almost left to find orange flowers. On the cusp of a step, he faltered, chewed his lip and snatched up the the framed drawing, tucked it under his arm and set it under the counter. He often wondered why Craig didn't hang of his drawings, even when he  
spent hours or days on them. At the least, that drawing deserved a better frame.

_And a good wall to hang on. The one behind our bed._

Clyde stared at the door leading to the shower. He was growing hard, thinking of nothing specific, Megan's breasts, the woman with the Golden Emperors, what her thighs would feel like if they closed around his wrist while he cupped her crotch, like Bebe's had, for reasons he no longer entertained. 

Yeah, yeah. Craig was right. 

Fully hard, Clyde washed his unsteady hands, changed into the spare, wrinkled clothing in the cabinet, locked the shop and boarded the next bus. He wore boxer briefs on his nights out, not wanting to advertise his erection to everyone in the bar. A ten  
minute ride and he tapped his foot the whole way through. 

He stumbled down the steps, barely finding the curb from the bottom step. By the time he'd made it through the front door and to his floor, he felt steady, and opened the door without a hitch. 

Craig lay on the couch, reading IEEE; he lips moved slowly and mutely, his face otherwise devoid of movement or expression. 

Clyde leaned down without greeting, pressed his mouth to Craig's ear.

“I thought about fucking the whole back here.” 

Craig didn't look up. “Oh really?” He sounded bored. 

“Yeah,” Clyde spoke heavily, pawing his crotch. “Couldn't stop thinking about it.” Clyde knelt, pushed his face into the nape of Craig's neck. “I wanted to fuck anyone who'd let me have them.”

Craig lowered the magazine. He stared at Clyde, his eyes finally alight, clear with understanding.

“And has anyone else ever wanted you to fuck them?”

Clyde's mouth dried. “No. No. Never.” No, Bebe had only ever wanted his mouth and his hands. She and Craig could both agree that Clyde had a voracious, monstrously insatiable mouth. 

Craig gripped Clyde's chin, then moved his hand slowly and smoothly up the curve of his jaw, grabbed the scraggly hair at his temple. 

“You think I want you to fuck me right now?” He palmed Clyde's chest, rubbed him hard through his shirt. 

Clyde nodded and pulled Craig up so they were at eye level; he kissed him sloppily, and the next instant his mouth was at Craig's ear again.

“I know you do.” He couldn't keep the high desperation out of his voice, couldn't control his stuttering gasp when Craig, goaded into full response, squeezed his crotch pushed himself fully onto Clyde's body. 

Clyde stumbled back, barely able to keep both of them upright. His back connected lightly with the opposite wall.

It's bare, Clyde thought, when he heard not a single rattle or tremor of glass. He couldn't focus after that; they stripped each other with clumsy abandon. Clyde pushed Craig against the couch, pressed their bodies together without thought. 

“You're hard like this all the time, aren't you? Huh. I know you wear that tight underwear just so you can control your dick.” 

“Yeah,” Clyde groaned, affirming the contradiction, even as his erection strained against Craig's stomach. 

Craig laughed, his voice clear and focused. “And dripping all over me too.” He rubbed Clyde's head with his fingertips, pressed them through Clyde's parted lips.

Clyde sucked nosily. Salt and water, but his blood must have boiled and expanded and God, Craig should have been scalded. 

“I need...” He swallowed, his throat quivering, his articulation lost. 

“Hmm.” Craig stroked Clyde's cock lazily. “Yeah, you're desperate enough, so...lube's on the shelf.”

Clyde stared and the nodded rapidly, lumbering over the couch to get at he small bottle. He squeezed a copious amount onto his hand, slicked up his erection and stumbled back to the couch, where Craig lay with his legs spread. Clyde smeared the reaming lube over Craig's entrance , then started to work him open with his fingers.

“God,” Craig muttered, “your hands are shaking, aren't they? You're so fucking desperate.” 

Clyde frowned and shoved two fingers into Craig without thought. 

“Oho, now you're trying to be aggressive and focu-” Craig hissed as Clyde jabbed up. 

Clyde removed his fingers and steadied himself, moving slowly. His girth was something Craig greatly appreciated, he knew. 

“Oh. God.” He moaned without constraint, his whole body quivering. He'd lose himself if he moved anymore quickly, and counted his thrusts. A bare dozen and he was close, drops of sweat ripening across his forehead. 

“Ah. So damn uncontrolled, Clyde.” Craig's delirious grin sent Clyde over; he came quietly, biting his lip numb and griping Craig's thighs so hard he left marks. He bowed his head took deep breaths, and moments later Craig had finished stroking himself to  
completion. 

“Sorry,” Clyde said softly.

“For what?” Craig seemed genuinely confused. He stroked Clyde's arm. 

“I mean, you know...” Clyde's face heated as he glanced at his cock. 

“Man, don't worry. You were great. Just...get me a towel.” Clyde nodded and headed to the bathroom, washed himself off at the sink and grabbed washcloth. 

While Craig cleaned himself, Clyde put on fresh clothing. He went back to the living room and sat in the middle of the couch, staring at his hands. The stains were fading, so the yellow and green splashes looked like bruises. 

When Craig returned, he sat down, swung his legs across Clyde's lap and returned his journal article. 

Clyde studied the cover, but it meant nothing to him beyond the few phrases he'd picked up whenever Craig talked about his outside of a clean room. 

“How's work going?” 

Craig shrugged. “Good enough. We've got some new hires. They don't know shit, and I'm tired of holding their hands.”

Clyde reached out and grabbed Craig's free hand. He couldn't see Craig's face over the cover, but convinced himself that he smiled. 

No. He is. Craig can laugh at dumb shit. 

“Everything's a fucking nanotube,” Craig muttered unhelpfully, turning through a section of pages in disgust. 

“Oh.” Clyde tightened his grip, realized his reaction and withdrew his hand. He met Craig's gaze moments later and held it long enough to say,

“When that Rembrandt, the white and pink one blooms, and you draw it, I don't want to sell it. I wanna frame it and hang it in the bedroom.” He paused, considering. “Probably behind the bed.” 

Craig nodded once. “OK.” 

Clyde supposed that as a good as he'd get tonight. 

 

Easter morning and Clyde woke with the sun. Craig had rolled away from him in the middle of the night, and his left arm and leg dangled off the side of the bed. He awoke at some point during Clyde's shower and started shaving. When Clyde finished, Craig had already undressed, and he walked passed and into the tub with the automatic ease of someone switching shifts. 

Clyde made breakfast. Eggs and bacon and toast, something easy and filling and uncomplicated. They'd stopped coloring eggs together after they'd turned twelve, out of a kind of mutual apathy, and probably Craig's own distaste of what he thought of as  
childish things. 

“You wanna buy a ham after church?” Craig quartered his egg and ate each piece in one bite. 

“You wanna cook a ham after church?” Clyde asked the question in all seriousness. He wouldn't mind one way or the other. 

“I guess we could go to my parents' place. Not right away. Just tell them we have some things to take care of.”

“Right.” Clyde couldn't muster an appetite. He'd delivered the tulips. Eight dozen of them. His largest single order. 

And why do I keep tell myself that?

“It'll be fine,” Craig said as he cleared the table. 

Clyde just nodded. It was all out of his hands now. No one could blame him for what people did with his flowers. Even if they probably would anyway.

Craig drove. He had a way of driving aggressively without ever becoming emotionally invested in anything that happened on the road. They passed Randy and Sharon Marsh on the way. Craig sped past then and pulled in front too quickly, Randy's car horn blaring after them. 

Craig just cracked his neck and sped all the way to the church. 

“God damn it. I can't believe half these ass holes give a flying shit about religion.” They circled through every parking row before finding a spot in the back. 

“We don't either. Not really.” Clyde usually attended Sunday service, but he couldn't quote any verses, and hadn’t gone to confession since he'd admitted to fucking Craig against his bedroom wall while being told in slow, steady terms what a disgusting deviant  
he was.

“Yeah, but we're not jackasses or ignorant hicks.” Craig slammed his door; he cast a sharp, thin shadow across the parking lot, in perfect complement to the fit of his rarely worn suit. Clyde's sleeves were barely long enough to pass his wrists. 

They cut across the dew kissed grass, Clyde's socks becoming inexplicably wet. 

“I need new shoes,” he announced at the door. 

Craig paused. “I'll dry your feet after this is over.”

Clyde cleared his throat, fought down his recollection of Craig's hands. “Yeah. OK.” He paused. “Look. Hey. Over there. I think that's Stan and Wendy.” 

Craig turned in time to see Clyde's back as he walked past him. 

_Yeah. It's Stan._

Clyde didn't know why he was happy to see him; he was more surprised that he'd recognized him immediately. Stan had a beard now, and it fit him, just like his suit. His eyes widened in recognition. 

“Hey, Clyde!” He might have shaken Clyde's hand, hand his own not been occupied with holding his son. 

Wendy stepped forward and hugged Clyde. She enough enthusiasm for her and Stan. 

“It's good to see you.” She stepped back and took him in. Clyde stood straighter, ran a hand through his hair. He hadn't paid Wendy much attention in high school, and wondered why. She kept her hair long and loose; it fell below her shoulders in a wavy  
sheen. Her dress was sleeveless, a collage of pink and black and white, as though a painter had made quick, broad brush strokes along a canvas that showed she still had the figure of a young, active woman. 

“You look good,” he said. His eyes darted to Stan, but he still smiled, adjusting his son's position in his arms. 

_He's happy. He's not...pining after someone else._

“This is Jake, by the way. Say hi to Clyde, Jake.” 

Jake erratically waved and uttered a wet sounding 'hellloo.” Stan laughed. “He's got so much energy.” 

Clyde nodded, tentatively happy again. “Looks like.” 

Craig finally walked up. Wendy didn't hug him, but he at least acknowledged both her and Stan with enough familiarity that they could pass for acquaintances. 

“Nice kid. Looks like you.” He nodded at Jake and Stan.

“His hair and nose are mine. Eyes and chin are Wendy's. We're hoping he gets her in the brain department too.”

Clyde tensed, waiting for Craig's patience to buckle, but he only hummed in acknowledgment. 

“So if you're here, does that mean that McCormick and fat ass are lurking in the bushes?” 

Stan shook his head. “No. I haven't talked to Kenny in over a year. Same for Cartman.” 

Clyde frowned. “But Kenny...” He stopped. 

_Said what? You wanna bang your best friend instead?_

Stan rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Kenny says a lot of things. Anyway, I'm here to visit my parents for Easter, so if you guys are free, we could have dinner. Or a drink.” 

“Sure,” Craig spoke up, surprising them all. 

“That's great,” Wendy said, smiling, sunlight flaring behind her head. “We can set up a time after the service. She put a hand on Stan's arm. “Come on. We need to get seats.” 

They walked off after one final goodbye; Craig commented that he didn't understand, since they'd see each other in an hour anyway. 

Inside a girl and boy Clyde had never seen before flanked the door, each holding a wicker basket full of cut pink tulips. 

Clyde stopped. His hands fell to his sides and he stared until the girl shifted uncomfortably and offered him a tulip. 

“They're for the Mass.” 

“Why?” Clyde asked, unblinking.

“Um. Because it's spring, and Easter. And...”  
But Clyde wasn't listening. All around he saw couples and families with their tulip. One woman rolled hers between her fingers, the petals a blur of color. Two came loose and drifted to the ground. Clyde followed their motion and saw whole flowers cast aside. 

“Clyde.” Craig's had was on his shoulder. “Come on.” He was gently pushed to the side, to clear the door, and he almost stepped on another discarded tulip.

“This is the last...fuck.” Clyde muttered, wiped his eyes even though they were dry. 

Craig grasped both Clyde's shoulders and guided him farther away, towards a corner. 

“We don't have to stay.” A simple, clean statement. Always that way with Craig.

_I'll bet everything's like that where Craig works._

“No,” Clyde said slowly. “No. No, we can...let's not. Leave, I mean.” He blinked and looked over Craig's shoulder, latched onto a distraction. 

_They'll probably be on the parking lot after this is over. Bloodless carnage._

“I put aside so much damn space in the greenhouse for this. And I mean, I could have been growing Triumphs, or Fosterianas. Or Rembrants. God, you know in July-”

“It's his birthday. The 15th.” Craig recycled the date without emotion.

It's just trivia. Like all the shit I know about tulips. 

“Look. I'm. I'm gonna go out. For a few minutes.” He left without another word. 

On his way he passed Butters and what he assumed was his still girlfriend; she wore a purple tulip, severed almost to the head, as a kind of makeshift corsage.

_It's the season, he thought spitefully._

They greeted him and he ignored them. He walked across the wet lawn, soaking his socks. He should have at least been able to buy shoes that weren't shitty. When he stopped, Clyde was off near another corner, and had no idea what he was doing. He  
expelled a breath and stared at the sky, imagined what he would have to look forward to tomorrow when everyone in town knew just what a joke their friends and families thought his shop was. That was why Craig never quit his job, never even considered it, because for all his apathy, he didn't want to be rolled in with a politely tolerated mockery of a businessman who could barely control his cock in public. 

Eventually, he heard the sounds of the chorus from the church. Craig sat on the bottom step, chin resting on an upturned palm. He held a flower in one hand. 

_Oh Christ._

Clyde trudged back across the grass, stopping in front of Craig. He waited for a reaction, received none, and sighed.

“My feet are soaked.”

“I'll dry them for you.” 

“I'll get hard if I think about that. Even now, right here.”

“So what? You're not gonna pull your dick out and start stroking it, are you?” 

Clyde didn't say anything. He paced back and forth along the width of concrete leading to the steps. 

“It's not a big deal. None of it is. Your dick. The flowers.” 

Clyde stopped. “It is to me. Especially the tulips.”

Craig sneezed. 

“Did you take your meds?”

“That makes me sound like a mental patient. Yeah. I took three. You were saying?”

“My dad gave me his store to run. I could have done that. But I decided to open the tulip shop. He only sold shoes, but at least people took him seriously enough to not get an order from him and then toss it in the garbage heap.” Clyde's voice rose in pitch and  
volume until he sounded like he'd burst, but his eyes never blurred. 

“Not everyone tossed your tulips. And your dad never personally made any of his shoes. Besides. They bought a huge order. Your a businessman. That counts as a success.”

“Jesus,” Clyde moaned. “I know. I don't even know what I expected. A nice centerpiece. Decorations. Something I could look at for just an hour. Something other people would look at.” 

“Like the drawings.” Craig held the tulip close to his face. “Plenty of people have those, put them on display.”

"You don't even keep any,” Clyde said quickly.

Craig sighed. “Why do you care?” 

Clyde retorted, “Why do you even draw them?” 

“To relax.” He shrugged. To kill time. They're just drawings of flowers.”

“But.” Clyde leaned forward, spread his hands, begging Craig to understand. “They're your drawings.”

“So?” 

Clyde grit his teeth. He took off his jacket, tossed it to the side, untucked his shirt and pulled it up to expose his stomach. 

“There,” he said, indicating the barely visible line of color above his hip. “A week ago on Thursday, after you finished drawing a Black Parrot. You had ink on your hands from the stems, and when you took off my shirt, you gripped me here, because you like my  
sides, and...” 

Clyde trailed off, on the verge of rambling. Craig stared at him, his exposed skin, the trail of thick hair leading downward. His eyes shone like two points of blue light at a distance, and he exuded a kind of grand self-confidence that Clyde was sure he'd never  
replicate. 

“I remember. You had that disgusting bright red shirt on.” He paused. “It's nice and tight around your arms, though. So there's that.” 

Clyde smiled. 

Craig sneezed. He rubbed his nose in irritation. “Well, they're not bad, I guess. The drawings. They sell.” 

“They always sell,” Clyde confirmed. And, even if they don't, people always ask about them. And they're good enough, uh, detailed enough, that I can point out all the details of a flower. It's like a diagram. Only not...dull.” 

“All right.” Craig looked back at the church. “They really are morons for putting all those flowers on the floor. This fucking town just kicks you in the balls. Allergies and then that shit. It's home, though.”

Clyde nodded. “Yeah. But it's the last time I let them buy from me.” 

“Artistic integrity. Right.” Craig stared at the downcast sky, face bland and unaffected. “I'm going to draw the pink and white broken tulip.”

“Zomerschoon,” Clyde supplied. 

“Yeah. If I could paint, I'd make one just like Goedaert.” Craig sighed expansively, looked away, and seemed, for an impossible moment, uncertain. “For you, I'd. We, could put in a frame and hand it wherever you want.” He paused, reasserted his confidence. “I  
can't give you a painting, though.” He had the flower in both hands now. 

Clyde almost kissed him. Instead he pulled Craig up by the arms, his hands first on his biceps, then his shoulders, then his sides. 

“I...” He laughed at his own helpless elation.

Craig touched his hip. 

“I know.”


End file.
